


Amor Vincit Omnia

by iamthewordshaker



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthewordshaker/pseuds/iamthewordshaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FIghting zombies and falling in love aren't entirely exclusive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amor Vincit Omnia

The end of the world doesn't start with a bang, or a scream, or a cry. It starts just before dawn, when the grass is still wet with dew, and the scuffling of the infected can easily be confused for stray animals in the dark.

To someone like you, it's... almost unsurprising, but not quite. There's a joke about irony floating around your head, but right now, you're focusing on gathering the essentials—water, food you can carry, clothing, medicine, sword, and Lil Cal. Can't forget the little dude behind.

Bro is in Hollywood, but you know he's alive. Communication fell within hours of the outbreak and the little news that did show up showcased a horrifying global epidemic. 

He always told you that Hollywood was brutal. "Either you make it or you don't," he'd said, sometime after your middle school graduation. "Make or break: get yourself on the mind of all those fuckin' critics or let them spit on you."

Kill every zombie bastard in sight or turn into one yourself. 

Make it or break. No point in stopping now.

x

You wake up with a loaded pistol aiming at your head.

The owner of aforementioned pistol looks at you suspiciously, although there's a softness in his eyes that shouldn't be there, zombie or not. You regard the gun nonchalantly and yawn obnoxiously.

"Is that a Glock in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

He stiffens and flushes, and although his lips curl down in resentment, his eyes flash with humor.

"You're not one of them?" He says _them_ like it's a cursed word, afraid it'll soil his tongue and teeth. 

"Asking me certainly isn't going to help," you remark dryly. The pistol is starting to get on your nerves. You know that your sword is under your pillow, but reaching for it couldn't be more obvious.

He shifts slightly and winces. You drop your eyes to his legs and— 

"Fuck."

He shifts again and grimaces. "I was looking for first-aid."

"Did you get bitten?"

"No!" he says defensively, but there's a hint of worry in the lines of his face. 

You've heard it before. Your neighbor, a pretty girl by the name of Ophelia. Despite being reluctant to help her, you didn't want to leave her to the sympathy of the massive hordes swarming the apartment building. She'd been pretty banged up, scratches and blood and bruises everywhere, and she was so scared. Not unlike this fellow, although he's a bit better at hiding his fear.

The hand holding his pistol only trembles faintly.

The girl you tried to help—you'd gotten to a safe place and was in the process of cleaning up her wounds when she''d—changed, really, gurgling low in her throat and then lashing out and you saw the teeth mark underneath the flesh and gunk and how the skin looked poisoned and foul. Not a second later and she was motionless, head lolling on the ground next to her, and you were packing up to leave.

So, no, you aren't all that willing to help this doofus out. Even if the words coming out of his mouth are the first you've heard in months.

Still.

He hasn't shot you yet. If your places were reserved, his brains would already be splattered on the ground. 

"Are you going to shoot me or not?" 

A muscle in his cheek jumps and after a silent moment of contemplation, he lowers his arm and holsters the pistol. (How you missed that, you'll never understand; matched with the shorts, he's practically Lara Croft's genderbent twin.)

Anyways, he doesn't have the face for a killer. Doesn't have what it'll take to survive this shitstorm and see the other end—if there is one, but you aren't concerned about that right now. It's been a day-to-day struggle trying to avoid getting bitten or just finding edible food. A few weeks back, as you walked down 290, a gang nearly killed you. You've kept off the major highways since then.

Saying you're tired would be a devastating understatement.

"Well—" 

"What in tarnation is _that_?" he says, practically scandalized as he jabs a finger in Lil Cal's direction. You sit up and pull him a little closer, reaching for your shades and quickly putting them on. You've used Cal and your shades as security blankets since—well, it's all you can remember. When Bro left, Cal kept you company; the nannies always changed because Bro would find something wrong with them (and one you may or may not have bitten). When you entered school, the shades help keep the comments about your "freaky eyes" to a minimum level.

"Cal," you say, a little snippy, and he rubs his hand through the mess on top of his head. He has buckteeth and some dark whiskers on his face, which still holds some prepubescent chubbiness.

Neither of you say anything for awhile. It's quarter past fuck all and an hour to Armageddon. The world is falling apart and zombies are invading, but the only thing you can think about is how nice this boy's eyes are.

x

His name is Jake English.

x

And he was not bitten.

x

Jake isn't from the continental U.S. He isn't from any recognizable country, really, just some island in the middle of nowhere where he lived with his grandmother his entire life. It explains the accent, some bizarre mix between Cockney English and Australian. He's the best shot you've ever seen, but also the first, so there isn't that much room for comparison. His grandmother is alive, he says, but you think she isn't. He's earnest in believing you when you say your own guardian is alive, though, so you don't say anything. Besides, maybe she is alive. Then again, maybe Bro is dead. 

Doesn't matter. Just keep going. 

_Just keep swimming_. When you were six, you were obsessed with Finding Nemo. It's almost embarrassing now, but there's nobody around to care.

You're heading to Hollywood. Jake doesn't know where to go. 

He's sort of like a lost puppy, but you're the kid with anime glasses and a fucking puppet clinging to your neck.

x

Jake is clever. He's also incredibly stupid. 

He's naïve and expects the best from everyone. You have to navigate him away from traps—obvious ones, too, how could someone _actually_ believe that—but then he'll do something stunningly clever, like finding some cans of beans and apricots in a grocery store. Compared to what you've been eating, you suddenly felt like royalty.

When you sleep, you take shifts. At first, you're uncomfortable with it. You're not superhuman, but you can damn well try, and it's unnerving being that vulnerable in front of a stranger. For awhile, you're convinced it's worse than sleeping alone was.

But Jake has to sleep too, and with nothing better to do than keep on the lookout for bandits or zombies, you watch him sleep. Not in a creepy way—at least, you don't mean it to be. He makes noises in his sleep, small grunts or soft sighs, and shifts sometimes, never completely rolling over. You sleep on your side with Cal nestled into your neck; he sleeps on his stomach, using his jacket as a pillow if it's warm enough. He usually drools.

As far as company goes, you could have better.

But you could have a lot worse.

x

Somewhere between Arizona and New Mexico, you almost Die.

Capital _d_ because it was just that close. 

Both of you are awake, eating the meal for the day: a jackrabbit, some bird eggs, and a can of pinto beans split between the two of you. You find a shelter instead of creating one—a trailer park, with each of you bunking together with the one on the outside. It looks abandoned and after a few calls from your brilliant companion to see if anyone _was_ there, nobody responds. You aren't going to deny yourself a bed, however, uncomfortable and moth-eaten as it may be. Still better than sleeping on the ground.

Once you finished cooking the food, you put out the fire and creep inside, eating and talking; the conversation led by Jake, of course.

You're feeling incredibly content and therefore just a bit dumb, bickering with Jake about his tastes in movies (which is horrid, by the way, because it's completely genuine). Right as he's explaining the pros and cons of classic black-and-white films, you hear a rustle outside. 

It could be nothing. It could be a wild dog—you've encountered a lot of them, and most tried to tear your throat out. Just a small _scritch-scratch_ , but it's enough to put you on edge. You put a finger to your lips and move to one of the windows, peeking between the curtains. 

Jake tries to follow suit, but you push him away—and quickly, trying not to panic, trying to think of an escape route, trying to think of where you went wrong and _why are you so stupid how could you be so stupid_ and _fuck me fuck fuck fuck fuck_ — 

There's a low growling outside and it almost sounds echoed, but you know it's the horde of flesh-eaters hovering around your trailer. Whether they can smell you or it's a coincidence, you don't know, but some of them are sliding against the trailer, knocking into it and trailing their nails along it.

"How many—?"

"Sh!"

"Dirk, I think we can take them—" 

You lean forward and angrily put him in a headlock, one arm going around his neck and the other clasping around his mouth. He huffs out his nose noisily as you lower the two of you to the ground, your heart beating overload in your chest.

After a few seconds, your grip relaxes on his neck but your hand remains planted on his face; he relaxes, surprisingly, and you take a moment to appreciate how he's practically sitting in your _lap_.

It's the closest you've been to anyone—ever, even before the outbreak—and you're about to die.

You're so close to dying, and Cal isn't helping to comfort you, and Bro isn't here, but this dork you picked up along the way is, and you just _don't want to die_ — 

There's a loud bang outside. 

Thunder. A surprise storm, the type that always scatters the zombies. You feel your bones and innards turn to sludge as you drop your hand from Jake's mouth, gasping in breath like you've been drowning.

Jake doesn't leave immediately, just breathes, and you stay there for awhile. Hours, even, until the torrential downpour slows to an off and on again pitter-patter.

"That was close," he mumbles, coughing once before scooting away. You're sitting in the aisle and can't stretch your legs out completely without bending them, so you pull your knees close to your chest and rest your cheek on a knee. He doesn't go far; you can still feel his warmth beside you and even as the rain slowly dies out, when there can't be any zombies left to tear your organs apart and sloppily consume your flesh, he rests his head on your shoulder.

You're really glad you didn't die.

x

The Sonoran smells like home, but it's a pain in the ass trying to get Jake to stop chasing snakes or petting scorpions or whatever he's up to at any given moment.

It's also a bit endearing, but you'd never tell him that.

x

Somewhere near the Californian border, you find alcohol. It's awful and cheap and not to mention _warm_ , but it's beer and you find a fairly nice place to hide out for the night. The bolts on most of the doors work and you haven't seen a zombie around for miles, anyways, but after that scare in the trailer park you're not taking any chances.

Well.

Not many.

It's a six-pack split between the two of you, but between the second and third, you feel stupidly drunk. Jake is a loud drunk, but he's always loud. He's more animated when he talks and you only half-listen, eyes trailing from his hair to his eyes to his nose to his lips, a pair of which he's been graced with, and you think of angels singing when Jake English came into existence if only for those lovely lips. 

You admire them so much that you reach forward without a second thought and kiss him. You both taste like beer and your teeth knock against his and he laughs into your mouth when you squeeze his ass.

But it's a good laugh, and he kisses you again, and you peck him on the nose, and it's disgustingly sweet but— 

It feels _nice_. He makes you happy, you think, even with all the shit going on. Maybe it's selfish, but maybe human beings are inherently selfish—clinging to the things they love, ignoring all the fucked up things in the world.

Jake curls up next to you and counts the lines on your palm, pretending he's a palm reader and kissing your knuckles. You run a hand through his hair and kiss his neck and he laughs and moans and suddenly you aren't so homesick.

x

Hollywood is a couple days away, only because you decided to stop at the beach. The carnival is abandoned except for a few gulls and one zombie that you dealt with swiftly. Jake peels off his shoes and socks and runs into the beach, yelling something like _tally-ho!_ at the top of his lungs and chasing gulls. He splashes into the water and grins, yells "The water's fine, Strider!"

A few hours later, he mentions how pretty the sunset looks, and you only hum in agreement. There's sand between your toes and in your hair and in every little crevice of your body—you'll never get it out, you'll be shaking sand out years from now, but Jake will too.

In less than a week, you'll be at Hollywood. You have to find your brother. Jake still wants to find his grandmother, and he says she'll likely be home. The island should be free of infection due to its isolation and the more he talks about it, the more it sounds like a paradise. 

The world is falling apart and you haven't even graduated high school yet. You're stuck with a dorky boy with dark skin and a bright smile, but he's stuck with you too. There's a lot of sentimental bullshit floating around your head, but it's already said when he laces your fingers and walks with you, smelling like saltwater and grinning ear-to-ear. 

"Ready to head out, jungle boy?"

He grins and you kiss him.

"You know it, Strider."


End file.
